Marron arrived at The Silver Cleaver just after dawn, before the restaurant would be open for regular service. The lower ring was quiet at this hour—vendors setting up, shopkeepers sweeping storefronts, the city slowly waking to another day.
The restaurant itself was modest but well-maintained. A narrow building squeezed between a tailor's shop and a bakery, with a painted sign showing a cleaver crossed with a sprig of herbs. The windows were clean, the door freshly painted. Through the glass, Marron could see someone moving inside—early prep work, the kind every restaurant did before customers arrived.
She knocked. Waited. Knocked again.
The movement inside stopped. Footsteps approached. The door opened to reveal a woman in her forties, human, with strong hands and flour dusting her apron. Her dark hair was pulled back in a practical bun, and she had the kind of tired eyes that came from years of restaurant work.
